March 23, 2019:
She once tried to make me jealous. I found her on the back of a Harley with a neighborhood tough dude, all long hair and tats, who glowered at me. I shook my head, tried not to laugh. "Get in the car," I told her, patiently, with humor. It's likely she and Johnny Hard Rock were both baffled.
She was lovely. Tall, lithe, very blonde, in the loose feather cut popular in the '70s yet, uniquely, without the blow-dry. She looked like an '80s gym girl ahead of her time.
She was submissive but she asked to go slow. Outcome of her history of abuse, clearly. I liked her and went as slow as she wanted, in the loft in my dorm room with her shirt up and her soft lips on mine.
She was highly illegal, but at that time it seemed moot. She certainly did need protecting, but the law would never be adequate. Her streetwise younger sister was the best protection she could ever find, and little sis approved of me.
It hurt me to know she'd been abused. In the decades since then it's hurt me over and over to know how many have been abused. Nearly all, in one form or another.
She wasn't the stay-in-touch type. She ran away and was gone, a healthy move on her part, entirely supported by streetwise younger sis. I pray for her every night.